


daddy's little nightmare in heels

by quixoti



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, Smoking Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoti/pseuds/quixoti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's been watching her sister for a long, long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	daddy's little nightmare in heels

**Author's Note:**

> a bit of forewarning--I, myself, do not smoke, and all the description in here is what I got from watching family members and also videos/blog posts I found online. Hope I got it right, but please let me know if I didn't!

The day worked up to be another slow, southern July burn.

They were parked in another shitty motel in the middle of fucking nowhere, Mississippi, with only the static of daytime TV and a deck of worn-out cards to keep them company. John had left for a hunt a couple of towns over yesterday. Dean had been aching to go, but John wouldn't let her.

“Hunt’s complicated, kiddo,” he’d said, checking his guns methodically and not looking Dean in the eye. “Better for you to stay here.”

This, of course, had pissed Dean off, because she was nineteen and bulletproof and terrified of being left behind. “I can take it, Dad, I’m not a kid anymore,” she’d countered, pursing her full pink lips and narrowing her eyes. She was leaned up against the door frame, blocking Sam’s view of the conversation, and she looked downright sinful. Sam picked at her cuticles to keep from looking at her lest she burn right up.

Dean liked to keep her hair long, knew all the ways to pull it back so it didn't interfere with hunts but just exactly how to style it down when she wanted to turn on the charm. Stole fashion magazines and cheap lipstick from the corner Walgreen's and managed to sweet-talk her way into getting some tight fitting, fashionable clothes and even a pair or two of nice shoes. Dean was careless with her beauty, she was daddy’s little nightmare in heels, and it set Sam’s skin on fire. She’d been looking up to her big sister since day one, and over the years it became a different kind of love.

Sam didn’t need a self-help book to know she was fucked up, but maybe it came with the family name. Sometimes, Sam thought she saw Dean looking back. For a moment, sometimes. Sam jerked when her dad spoke again, ripped out of her thoughts.

John sighed. “I know you can, Deanna, but someone’s gotta watch after Sammy, all right? Just stay here and stay out of trouble. There’s money in the Impala. Call me if something goes wrong, okay?"

“It’s _Samantha_ ,” Sam bit out, but John was already hoisting his bag over his shoulder and ducking out into the sweltering heat, leaving Sam and Dean to voice their complaints to the hot summer air.

The room lulled into a silence, broken only by the low hum of the air conditioner struggling to cool the room. Dean was still leaning up against the door, beautiful face twisted up in frustration, and Sam was still resolutely not looking at her. Sam kept waiting on her sister to break the silence, to complain about being shafted with babysitting duty, but Dean only sighed and peeled herself off the door frame, reaching for her worn-out, sale-bin purse and heading for the door. “Sit tight, Sam. I’ll go get dinner,” she said, and her voice was heavy with disappointment, and it was just like John leaving again as she slammed the door.

Sam wanted to go after her, tell her they could eat what was left in the fridge, but Dean knew that. Dean was her daddy’s child and thought driving and loud rock could cure any ailment of the heart, so Sam just stood in the silence of the room until she heard the Impala tire’s squeal out of the parking lot.

The tension slowly left the room, slowly left Sam, and was replaced with bone-deep boredom and loneliness. No telling when Dean would be back, so Sam crossed the dirty carpet and flopped on the ugly, 70s neon floral print couch, covering her eyes with scrawny arms and letting out a deep sigh.

She flipped the tv to the local news and tried to sleep.

\--

As it turns out, covered in sweat and boredom is not a good recipe for sleep, and three hours later and her t-shirt and bra in a heap on the floor next to her hiking boots and socks, Sam was still staring numbly at the ceiling. Dean had come back at some point, but she’d brought friends. Sam could hear them shooting the shit and popping beer tops out in the parking lot. Sam could go out and drink with them, Dean would probably let her, but then she’d have to put on a shirt and some of the voices outside sounded male. The last thing she needed today was to be forced to watch some teenagers ogle her sister.

It’s not that she was jealous, because that would be fucked up. It was perfectly normal to be protective over your sister. It would not be normal to hate when your sister charmed everything on two legs and came home stinking of sex, so Sam absolutely did not hate that. She was only worried for her sister’s well-being. And that’s what kept her awake, staring at the ceiling and tracing idle patterns across her pale, flat stomach, until she heard the doorknob click and the door scrape across the carpet almost two hours later. Just the worry for her sister's fate and nothing more.

The room seemed more safe when Dean stepped back in, though Sam would never tell her that.

It wasn't until she felt Dean's eyes on her body that Sam remembered she wasn't wearing a shirt.

“Damn!” whistled Dean, jingling the car keys as she set her bag down on the coffee table. “Waiting up for someone, little sister?”

Sam still had her arm flung over her face so Dean couldn't see her deep red blush. “It got hot,” she explained, voice quiet, and then moved her arm when she got a whiff of something odd.

Dean was standing over her, KFC bucket in one hand and cigarette in the other, smiling as wide as could be and like there wasn't a damn evil thing in the world. Sam stared. Dean took a slow, teasing puff on the cigarette, fluttering her eyes closed as she did so, before pulling off to obnoxiously blow the smoke in Sam’s face. Sam coughed and turned away, spluttering curses. “What, Sammy? Never seen a smoker before?”

There were several more eloquent arguments against the cigarette hanging out of Dean’s mouth, like, Smoking will fuck up your stamina and Second hand smoke can kill, you know, but Sam stammered and crossed her arms across her chest self-consciously and said, “Dee, you don’t even fuckin’ _smoke_.”

Dean twisted her lips and shoved at Sam’s legs so she could sit down on the couch, setting the bucket of chicken on the far side of the table where they wouldn't knock it off if they propped up their feet. She sat down and turned so her feet were splayed out in Sam’s lap, who was still covering her chest in embarrassment. Dean took another drag and kept her eyes closed as the smoke drifted past her lips.

“What can I say, sweetheart, when in Rome. And watch your fucking mouth.”

Sam, despite herself, snorted. “Can you take a break from contracting lung cancer and let me get my shirt?”

Dean still had her eyes closed, long eyelashes casting attractive shadows on her freckled cheeks. “Don’t have to cover up on my account. Not such a bad view, kiddo.”

Sam froze. “Dean,” she said hoarsely, cautiously.

Dean opened her eyes and smirked. “Just like you to overthink every little word I say. C’mon, Sammy. Leave it off and I’ll teach you how.”

“To smoke?” Sam was incredulous now. “What, you want me running around stinking of nicotine and half-naked? I knew you weren’t the best influence, Deanna, but damn.”

Dean laughed, just like Sam knew she would, and reached out and wrapped a strong hand around Sam’s arm. “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

Sam knew.

“Look, it’s just a good skill to have. Ever heard of social smoking? Useful on hunts, sometimes. Makes people warm up to you.”

“Or run away coughing because you smell like an ashtray.”

Dean laughed again. “Christ, you got so sassy. Just let me teach you,” and then she was stubbing out her cigarette on the edge of the coffee table, which Sam didn’t think was very sanitary or safe, but Dean had that determined look like she got when she was fixing the Impala or brushing out a stubborn knot in her hair, and Sam was always horrendously bad at saying no to her sister.

“Fine, fine, just let go of me,” Sam grumbled, bending over the couch to reach for her shirt. Before she could reach it, Dean’s hand was back on her arm.

“Just keep it off, Sammy,” she murmured, and her gaze was electrifying.

In an uncharacteristic moment of boldness, thinking maybe Dean would drop it, Sam said, “Only if you take yours off too.”

Dean’s eyes went dark, devious, and she smiled wide enough to show teeth. “Now you’re getting it, Sammy,” and then she was snaking her capable hands under her tight plaid shirt and lifting slowly, playfully, pulling it off over her head and going back for her lacy bra until nothing was left but the gold glitter of her necklace against her chest.

Sam stared. Unabashedly. Her sister surely had nothing to be ashamed of. Sam had never looked at a pair of boobs before and thought “beautiful”, but things change. Sam had seen Dean naked a thousand times, living in close quarters for fifteen years would do that for you, but this was very different. Dangerous even. The tension in the room spiked, and Dean kept her eyes locked on Sam’s as she fished in her back pocket for the pack of cigarettes and lighter.

Sam’s voice was strained. “Where…where did you even get those?”

Dean flipped the top on the pack without breaking eye contact. “Gas station clerk was sentimental,” she said, and Sam could tell she was bullshitting, covering something up, but it made Sam’s blood spike hot with jealousy all the same.

Two sisters, sitting shirtless on a motel couch in Mississippi smoking cigarettes. There was a joke in there somewhere, but Sam was too busy staring at Dean.

When Sam looked up, Dean was twirling the cigarette slowly in her hand and watching Sam. “You ready?” she asked, voice rough with something Sam couldn't identify.

Sam nodded, and Dean leaned over, necklace thudding against her breastbone, and slipped the filter between Sam’s lips. Sam held it obediently. “Good girl,” murmured Dean, and Sam shuddered.

“Now, when I light it, you’re gonna inhale. Just a little, or you’ll cough yourself to death. Trust me.” Dean’s voice was low and gentle, and she smiled so softly that Sam almost forgot she was about to smoke a cigarette and rebel against everything D.A.R.E ever taught her. “Now when you inhale, hold the smoke in for a second while you take the cigarette out of your mouth. Hold it with two fingers”—Dean mimed the action on the cigarette hanging from Sam’s lips—“and exhale the smoke from your mouth. Got it?”

“Inhale just a little, hold cigarette with two fingers, exhale out of mouth,” Sam parroted. God, this was like every fucked up story about a girl just dying to be like her sister. Meth was probably next on the list, but as long as Dean kept talking like that, Sam would do anything.

Dean studied her face and then added, “Don’t drop the ashes on your boobs,” and lit the cigarette.

Sam inhaled and it was the worst fucking thing she’d ever tasted. She yanked the cigarette out of her mouth and blew out the smoke as fast as she could, delving into a coughing fit. She stubbed the cigarette out on the edge of the coffee table like Dean had done. “What the fuck, Dean,” she said, wiping some tears from her eyes that were a result of the cough, “that was fucking awful.”

“Aw, but Sammy, you looked so hot with that thing hanging from your mouth,” laughed her sister, and Dean was very close now, her nicotine breath ghosting over Sam’s cheeks, and Dean was shirtless and her lips were full and pink and slightly parted and she was gorgeous—

“You're always hot to me, though, Sammy,” and then she kissed Sam, and it tasted like that fucking cigarette and Dean’s mint-flavored chapstick, and it was warm and weird and all of those sidelong looks and touches boiled down into one solid thing, and it was every wet dream Sam had ever had. Dean pulled back but stayed close enough that their noses bumped.

“This is fucked up,” said Dean softly.

“So is teaching your kid sister to smoke,” laughed Sam, and then she was pulling Dean back down to kiss her again and they were flush chest to chest, and maybe they were both going to hell for this, but at least the trip would be wild.


End file.
